


in a days work

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Autopsy, F/M, Gen, Post-Icarus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: A look into George Fancy's autopsy, through the eyes of one world weary pathologist.
Relationships: George Fancy/Shirley Trewlove
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	in a days work

**Author's Note:**

> ?? idk how to feel abt this i just wanted to work less on action-packed story and more on feelings-and-shit so?? idk... i just wanted to make myself sad okay lol

This was one of those few times when Max found himself wanting to agree with the coppers who insisted autopsies were stupid. He was reminded for a moment of Sergeant Jakes, who always rolled his eyes when the autopsy found that the man with the knife in his chest had indeed died from the knife in his chest. But a pathologists job was a thorough one, leave no stone unturned that sort of thing. At least, Max was that sort of pathologist. Each body that passed him deserved the same level of care and precision in his work, regardless of what policemen on a time limit insisted. 

But this time, Max felt inclined to agree with them. It was quite clear, to anyone who cared to look, what had killed George Fancy. Three bullets, all still lodged somewhere inside him. His was a body Max would much rather not be slicing open. 

His hand hovered over the sheet that covered Fancy’s corpse. They didn’t tremble, but they held still for a moment. He could imagine, in those few seconds, that the body was anyone else, not the bright eyed boy who had been in here only days ago, standing opposite him. Even this morning, he had seen him outside the chapel, as lively as ever despite the dreary circumstances. Max had always admired his inquisitive nature, a nice contrast to Morse’s constant disdain of bodies. He had been sure Fancy would make quite the sergeant one day, inspector if he wanted. He could have done just about anything he wanted, and now he was gone. 

He had to push away those thoughts, keep them tied up for another day, the funeral, perhaps. Now was the time for work, as much as the thought pained him. 

Bringing the cloth down, he studied Fancy’s face as he pulled on his gloves. Such a young man, he couldn’t see past that. He’d seen other young ones pass his slab, of course he had; but none that he had known so well. None that he saw so much lost potential in. Twenty three, barely finding his footing in the world. Max remembered being twenty three, not even through medical school, still swimming in debt and crashing on friends couches. Drinking too much and sleeping too late, all the stupid things one did at that age. All the stupid things one did after that too, and the less stupid ones. The dates, the jobs, the wives and children. The wide open skies and endless futures. 

As he slid over his tray of equipment, Max’s mind flickered to WPC Trewlove. He had never been one for spreading gossip, but you couldn’t help what you heard. Their somewhat iffy beginnings, their blossoming romance. The silly worry of Fancy’s that he was going to lose her, to Morse of all people. Max thought that unlikely, Trewlove was better than that, but now they would never know. He pitied poor Trewlove, now forever to find herself wondering. She hadn’t known if he was  _ the one  _ and now she never would. There would always be that question. She would be Shirley-with-the-dead-boyfriend. Nevermind she might have been ending it soon, it stung just as bad, if not worse, to think that they still might have been something. A family. Max shook his head and picked up his scalpel. No point wondering on things like these, it helped none. 

He began working, slowly and carefully. He had no desire to carve Fancy up anymore than necessary. It became frighteningly normal for a moment, as he worked to extract the bullets from Fancy. Far too easy to concentrate on the inner workings of a body and imagine they were anyone else. He had two of the bullets out and rattling in a tin before he had to stop, fingers beginning to ache. That was peculiar, he had such steady hands normally. As he dropped the soiled knife into the sink he realised he had been holding himself tense, coiled like a spring and it made his hands tingle. Sighing, he found even his jaw had been clenched, starting a mild ache that was pushing up into the beginning of a headache. 

Knowing he had to return to the table, he wished suddenly for some company, or that he had put the radio on before starting. It felt much too quiet, which normally wasn’t an issue, but today it added to the heavy sort of feeling. Like a cold wind pressing against him, pushing him in a direction he had no desire to go. It was unsettling to say the least. 

The whole world felt dreary and grey. Except his hands of course, gloves stained scarlet, the only splash of colour in his lab today. He decided then and there he would stop by the local garden centre on his way home, find something colourful for the garden. Crocus perhaps, purple or yellow; something cheerful. Something to make up for the loss of those bright eyes and pink cheeks they had lost. 

Decision made, it gave Max the drive to turn back to his table and finish up. To pluck the last bullet from Fancy’s otherwise healthy heart. He checked of course, all the things one would in an autopsy. For the most part, healthy lungs, a good gut - last meal from the chippy - even his liver was in good nick, and Max knew how much his sort loved to drink. Such a waste of a healthy young man. Sewing up, it was just as he had expected. George Fancy had been shot, his chest filled up with blood, and he had died choking on it. He could pretend it had been quick, but the poor boy had probably lain there for a while before it ended. Someone had watched the light fade from his eyes, the blood trickle from his lips. A pang of white hot rage slammed into Max. At whoever had done this, at whatever circumstances has lead to this, at himself for no reason other than having not done  _ more _ . He had to take a moment, to snap off his gloves and press a hand to his eyes. If there were tears in his eyes, which there surely were  _ not _ , they were ones born of a hollow sort of anger.

As he finished up, slid Fancy’s body into the cooler, he took one last proper look at the boy. He’d see his face again no doubt, when his parents cane for him, then the undertaker, and possibly at the funeral too. But this was the last time he’d see him alone. The last time for Max to bid farewell to the young man he had only begun to know. To apologise, on the off chance anyone would hear, for the injustice. To promise answers. 

Then the cooler door fell shut, and Max DeBryn had to move on. He had bodies to examine, case files to finish, and bullets to run ballistics on. 

**Author's Note:**

> lemme know how it went bc i for one am very not sure. i think i got max down right idk


End file.
